Instructions
by boswellonthestreet
Summary: Immediately post-S2 finale. Belle opens the roll of parchment Rumplestiltskin gave her, and proceeds to decipher his instructions and discover all the things he has left behind. Rumbelle, oneshot; cross-posted on AO3.


**Title:** Instructions

**Author:** boswellonthestreet

**Rating:** K+

**Pairing:** Rumbelle

**Disclaimer:** Once belongs to Kitswitz not me, there is only a week left until S3, I am dying, etc. etc.

**Summary:** Immediately post-S2 finale. Belle opens the roll of parchment Rumplestiltskin gave her, and proceeds to decipher his instructions and discover all the things he has left behind. Rumbelle, oneshot; cross-posted on AO3.

* * *

She stands on the dock with the sea wind plucking at her hair, and watches the miles of still, deep water stretching out before her. Just moments ago—though she can already feel the weight of decades in her chest—there was a ship there, on the horizon. She can see it still, all sky-high masts and taut white sails, looming on the edge of her mind.

A ship and a whirlpool—and a farewell.

The small scroll is still clutched tightly in her fingers, the red ribbon wrapped snugly around its middle like a sliver of blood. Pulling at one end until it comes undone, she spreads the piece of paper open, reads the first few lines of spider-thin writing. She licks her lips and tastes salt.

_Belle, my love,_

_Once you asked me about how I could see the future. I told you that I could only receive hazy glimpses of it at most—like riddles without a language with which I could speak them. Recently, a few threads of it have made themselves known to me, but as always, I do not know what larger circumstances surround them. _

_Though I hope this never comes to pass, I write this to you in the event that we are separated. _

Squaring her shoulders, she turns away from the sea and walks back over the dock.

_What follows is a list of instructions that I trust you to understand. If all goes well, you should be able to complete the list with no trouble._

The wooden planks, bowed in the middle, have collected water; her shoes are soaking by the time she reaches shore. As she makes her way down the sidewalk and across town, she leaves small wet marks on the concrete.

_1. The house is yours until I return. Should you find yourself in need of anything, I have left an ample amount of money with Ruby for your expenses. _

_2. There is something hidden for you, where laughter is sunshine and love is enough. Wait at least seven hours after I am gone before you use it._

The house was always too big. It reminds her of some of the castles she visited back home—too full of rooms, of silence, of breakable things. This is how she knows that it could never, not really, be hers—no matter what anyone says.

She pads down the hallway, climbs the carpeted stairs to his bedroom, and pushes the door open slowly because she is afraid to disturb the cobwebs of memory inside—a fine layer that has settled over the pillows, the desk, the back of the chair.

She locates the copy of _Les Miserables _on his bookshelf with little trouble, and opens it to find the pages hollowed out and the spare pawn shop key waiting there for her. Then she sits on his bed and pulls her knees up to her chin, closing her eyes and breathing in every last familiar scent—until the sun has dipped out of sight and the moon is hanging high above her head. By then, it occurs to her that other people right at that moment are putting food into their mouths, or turning the wheels of their cars, or whatever it is people do to remind themselves they are alive.

She needs no such reminders. She can feel it all too well.

By then, his closet is waiting for her too, and she slips into one of his coats before taking to the streets again. Her fingertips barely graze the cuffs of the sleeves.

_3. Flip it. (Knowing the residents of Storybrooke, this is probably not going to help much, but do it anyway, just in case.)_

In spite of it all, a grin tugs at the corner of her lips. She unlocks the pawn shop door, steps in, and obediently flips the 'Open' sign around so that it reads 'Closed' before locking up again behind her. Her footfalls ring out in the darkened room, are cut in two by the swords gleaming in their glass cases, are swallowed by the boars' and bears' heads mounted on the walls.

_4. Go to the usual spot. This time, check the very bottom. _

She ducks behind the shop counter, to where he usually stood when entertaining customers—_stands, _she corrects herself sharply, where he usually stands.

The bottom-most drawer is unlocked, but it takes several firm tugs before she can get it open. Inside is a wide, flat wooden box about the size of an encyclopedia.

_5. First—counterclockwise twice, second—clockwise four times, third—counterclockwise thrice._

The box is much heavier than she expected. It takes both hands and a considerable amount of her upper arm strength to lever it out of the drawer. She sets it on the counter with a _thud _and winces, hoping she hasn't scratched the well-varnished surface_. _

Carved on the lid of the box are three dogs. They stare up at her, each with a large round pair of eyes raised from the wood; each pair is bigger than the last. She pushes experimentally at the smallest dog with her finger, until she finds that its eye is a rotating disc. Every turn makes a tiny _click. _

She turns the eye twice counterclockwise. Then she moves onto the next dog, and then the last, counting every _click _under her breath. When she has made the final turn, there is one last loud _click, _and the lid springs loose beneath her hands.

_6. Take what is inside. _

Trembling slightly, she reaches into the velvet-lined box and pulls out a silver hand mirror. The ornate handle fits perfectly in her palm, and the curved back is decorated with gleaming roses.

_For two minutes every day, it will show you whatever your heart desires. _

She lifts the mirror up, sees her own oddly calm face reflected there. Puts her mouth so close to it her breath mists the surface.

_All you have to do is ask it._

And she does.

The glass in her hand swirls and glows bright green, ripples violently as though it has turned to liquid. She squeezes her eyes shut and gasps at the sudden blast of icy wind that stings her cheeks. And when she opens her eyes again, the face she sees in the mirror in front of her is no longer her own.

"Hello, sweetheart," says Rumplestiltskin, smiling faintly.

"Rumple," Belle whispers back, and the weight in her chest drops away.

"Ah—you can't touch, I'm afraid," he warns softly, when she makes a move to put her hand to the shimmering surface. "It'll break the connection."

She jerks her hand back as though she's been burned, and peers more closely at the world beyond the glass instead. The room around him is shadowy and swaying, and a swinging lantern on a wall hook casts dark shapes across his face. "Where are you?"

"Belowdecks. The others are already asleep—well, except for Miss Swan. The captain insisted on giving her a one-on-one sailing lesson." His features twist into a disdainful expression, and she laughs for the first time in a long time, feeling the tears spill down her cheeks. "How are you holding up?"

She scrubs fiercely at her eyes, commanding herself to stop, before replying. "Actually, I'm having a wild party back at the house right now...so I need to go if I want to be back in time for the dwarves' striptease act," she manages, and he laughs back silently, the lines showing around his eyes.

"That's my girl," he says, and the pride in his voice is unmistakable, the pride and the pain and the love all rolled into one.

"We only have two minutes," she says finally, swallowing.

He nods. "Then let's make them count."

* * *

_I know this is probably going to be jossed, but that's precisely why I felt I had to write it now before the S3 premiere is upon us. So I wrote this all in one go without stopping, and edited as I went along; that said, sorry if I made any mistakes, I haven't written fanfiction (or any kind of fiction) in like a bajillion years. _

_Also, I am still hoping against hope that I do get it right, and __Skype I MEAN__ the magic mirror from "Beauty and the Beast" will factor into it somehow, because COME ON the writers better have realized you cannot keep Rumbelle apart for more than 11 episodes because then the fans will be very very upset and they will lose viewership and ABC will throw some hissy fits so there._

_Hope you enjoyed! Please leave me constructive crit, if you are so willing; I would greatly appreciate it. 3_


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